Lee Johnson - Nitro Mountain

“I’m going to put this bottle back here and regulate your intake,” Larry says. “That all right?”

“Yeah, just give me one more pour before you do.”

“So you’re going solo?”

“Till I find some guys who fit my playing.”

“Pretty hard around here.”

“Maybe it’ll give me a chance to try out some new songs,” Jones says.

“Originals, that’s what the agents want.” Larry scoops some ice, drops it into Jones’s glass and pours him another one.

“Right, the fucking agents.” Jones tips the glass up. “Do me a favor, no more ice.”

“I’m excited to see how it goes for you, Jones, just you and your guitar. I think it could be good. Strip it down, you know.”

“I’m working on a new song.”

“Glad to hear it. You sleeping in your van?”

“No,” Jones says. “Yes.”

“You know there’s an empty room at my house.”

Jones pushes his glass out and Larry gives him a generous vertical turn of the bottle. “Last one.”

Jones shoots the big drink down his throat and drops the glass back onto the bar. This should be a good evening at the Hickory. Nobody here to impress except Larry — good luck with that — so why not have a few pops before the set. “I appreciate it,” he says.

“What’re you doing tomorrow? You got anything booked?”

“Did.”

“I got the Jags in here tomorrow night. You want to open? It’d be only for tips. But hell, far as tips go, you can play happy hour every day this week if you want to.”

“Might, might not. Thanks, though. I just feel like bumming around a little bit more. Probably go see Natalie, since I’m officially back in town.”

That’s his ex-wife, who lives down the road. Larry shakes his head. “She ain’t been doing well.”

“Drinking,” Jones says. “Messing around every night. And, let me guess. Coming over here during shows and making a racket. That song wrote me .”

“Try not to start nothing if you see her. Every time she comes in here she’s hellfire.”

“I’m just going to swing by and check on her, see what’s up. Well, that and she’s still got my guitar case. If she’s drinking that much, I better get it before she burns it to ashes or something.”

The wind sends the branch of a poplar scraping across the side window, which creaks and cracks and then breaks. “There she goes,” Larry says.

“There she goes again,” Jones says.

“I got to take care of that branch tomorrow before it kills the tree.”

Larry’s good at getting shit done. Can’t not be busy. He even fronted the money for Jones’s first demo. About half the CDs are still behind the register in cardboard boxes. And they’re not really all that bad. Ask any of the thirty-three dopes who bought one.

Jones gets up, goes behind the bar and grabs the bottle. “Let’s do one more. You and me.”

The whiskey glugs from the long-barreled neck into his glass. Jones sets it down in front of him, points at it and says, “Who you think you looking at?” He turns to Larry. “You gonna let this guy talk to me like that?”

“What’s he saying?”

“He says I’m too chicken to drink him. He’s sitting right here calling me names. He don’t even know me.” Jones stands up, adjusts his belt and sits back down. “And I just heard him say something about my mama.”

“Ah, shit.” Larry rubs his eyes.

“You know what I’m about to do to you?” Jones asks the glass. “I’m about to suck your ass down .”

Larry walks over, opens the front door and leans out for some air. Jones tips the bottle up to his mouth, pulls it away, looks around, then takes it up once more and screws on the cap.

“I saw that,” Larry says.

“Just making sure I can take care of his friends before I start dealing with him.”

“You need some backup?”

“Might,” Jones says. “Yeah, shit. I’m down and they’re kicking me.”

Larry comes over and drinks the rest of it. Jones unscrews the bottle and pours another short one. “This guy’s been talking shit too.”

—

The uneven floor around Jones’s stool allows him to rock along to the music. He’s only thirty but has real sympathy for these old songs. He looks into his drink. Staring through a glass of bourbon straight . He grabs a bleach-white napkin from a chrome box on the counter, writes that thought down and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans. “My next song’s about nobody but you,” he says to his drink.

“Y’all make up that fast?”

“We just had a misunderstanding is all. Ain’t that right, Mr. Dickel?” His foot slips off the footrest and hits his Gibson leaning against the bar, knocking it to the floor. All the strings ringing out.

“Hell,” Larry says. “That’s the one thing your daddy left you. If you ain’t going to play it, put it up.”

“She’s got the case.”

“Who?”

“Natalie. I just told you. I’ll play it when everybody shows up.”

“Ain’t nobody showing up tonight, Jones.”

“You’ll see.” He picks up his guitar and sets it across his lap. He drains the drink, flips the guitar upright and hits a big A. It’s almost in tune with the song that’s playing, so he starts banging away and singing along, “Won’t you come to my arms, sweet darling, and stay?”

“I know the answer to that question,” Larry says. He puts the bottle out of sight, pushes some numbers on the register and rings him up. “Five bucks.”

Jones wipes his chin, strums harder and finishes, “The hell you trying to pull?” He puts his guitar down, goes behind the bar, stumbles over the rubber floor mat, grabs the bottle from below the register and carries it back to his stool.

“Don’t,” Larry says.

With the bottle uncapped in his hand, Jones blinks at him. “I just had an idea: Fuck no.”

“Five bucks. Or quit drinking now.”

“Look here,” Jones says. “I got a new song. Want to hear it?”

“No.”

“That’s what it’s called!”

“Listen,” Larry says, “I can’t just have you drinking like this. And then acting like this.”

“ You listen. I been drinking, okay?”

“ One thing we can agree on.”

“So we’re in agreement. Good. I been drinking because I ain’t been playing.”

“Ain’t been playing because you been drinking.”

“I ain’t been playing because nobody’s here. Which is why I been drinking. Which is your fault. So. Here’s to me, because nobody’s like me and nobody likes me.” He takes a long pull from the bottle.

The music stops, and Jones goes over to the jukebox.

“You better come back to my place,” Larry says.

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Jones says, “and I ain’t never coming back.” He sways to his seat.

Larry’s holding the bottle. “Now I’m not kidding.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Jones blinks at him again.

“ Been saying so.”

“Fine,” Jones says. “Let’s clean things up and head back to your place.”

“Sounds good. You don’t mind sleeping in the living room, do you? Sharon’s been staying with me and we like to keep the upstairs to ourselves.”

“You love her yet?”

“Yeah. Told her, too.” He puts the bottle back down.

Jones can tell he’s about to get a story out of this old soft-heart. He takes out the napkin again and flattens it in front of him.

“I’d like to marry her,” Larry says. “If she’ll let me. Ain’t asked her yet, though.”

Jones stops the pen on the paper and looks up at him. “Bullshit. Don’t lie.”

“No shit. None at all.”

“So when you gonna ask? You got a band to play the wedding yet? I’ll give you a bargain.”